The Rose

The angels squint, unable to behold
the whiteness of her light and her crimson soul.
What mystery lies beneath the
rainbow velvet of her skin
the transforming photosynthesis
that distills our tears and fears
and gives flight to our nights?

What saints visit her sleep
and sprawl their souls
upon her demons
lacing her with their grace?

Or is it the momentary solitudes
she creates in the interstices of her days
between the liquid layers of her being
in the silence of the sun?

How does she spring open
the bud of her psyche
laying bare her vulnerable viscera
to expose the splendor that grows there?

The quiet laughter and knowing smile,
the delicate wisdom of her wings
not born of daisies' caresses
or orchids' flamboyant affections,
but sprung from the thorny love
and the hard stem of her roots.

She is a flowering that flows
from storms and torrents of sorrows,
from the love and loving of those
who know the blessing of the rose.